44 Lexington
by rukushaka
Summary: /Blog of John H Watson: Bumped into Mike Stamford earlier today. Found a flat tonight. Shouldn't think I'll be seeing much of my flatmate - he's a detective with the Met, keeps all sorts of odd hours./ Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Epic bromance, no slash.
1. Chapter 1

**The BBC owns Sherlock.**

**Prompted by, and filled for, TYRider.**

**Enjoy reading, and do let me know if you liked it - I, like many others, thrive on feedback.**

* * *

**Prompt: Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.**

* * *

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike Stamford asked.

John abruptly remembered one of the many reasons they had stuck together through med school: where John had been sharp-eyed and steady-handed, Mike had had a memory for detail that no-one else in the class could match. They hadn't seen each other in, oh, it must be over a decade now, and for the man to remember that John had a sister, and what her name was…

But either he'd forgotten she had a history of alcohol abuse, or - and this was more likely, it had been the cause of more than one heated debate between them as students - he was being the eternal dreamy-eyed optimist.

John snorted. "Yeah, like that's going to happen."

The Mike of his med school days would've sniffed and looked offended; this one just nodded and grinned a bit, as though he'd been expecting an answer of that sort, before tossing out another question, "I don't know - you could get a flatshare or something?"

Another snort. Yep, Mike was dreaming. He'd been home from the war for three weeks, three endless fleeting weeks, and he wasn't anywhere near ready to share living space with a civilian. If it wasn't the looks of pity and the long stares at his shuffling limp when they thought he wasn't looking, it was the bitter scowls and mutters of _serves you right for signing up… what are we paying taxes for, eh? So blighters like you can get sent home and not have to work another day in your life?_ Nights were the worst. Phantom strains of remembered adrenaline flooded his system and crashed against the terrible towering waves of gushing blood and survivor's guilt coming the other way; he would jolt awake, bite back the scream of rage and pain and sheer tangled _emotion_, and the mixture left his body the only way it knew how, trailing saltwater streaks down his cheeks.

He waved an arm, encapsulating his bung leg and the crutch leaning against the seat, "Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike's mouth twitched and stretched into another grin. He chuckled lowly.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

Knowing Mike's capacity for picking up the stragglers and loners of society, it was hardly surprising, and yet… well. His mate had that _look _on his face, the one he recognised from their school days. It called up memories of mischievous pranks gone spectacularly right.

And so he asked: "Who was the first?"

* * *

Mike strolled into New Scotland Yard looking, well, not as if he owned the place - that simply wasn't Mike's style - but as if he knew everyone there and, what's more, knew their mums as well. John swallowed his nervousness at calmly walking in the front doors of the Yard in search of a potential flatmate and hurried after Mike, who had nodded politely to the nearest uniform, made a brief enquiry of the nearest desk clerk, and was now heading for the lifts.

Three minutes brought them to the ninth floor and the Homicide and Serious Crime Division.

"Left here," was Mike's only comment as they exited the lift. He'd said nothing about the person they had come to see, smiling enigmatically and staying stubbornly closed-mouthed in the face of John's questions.

John followed Mike down the hall, around a corner, and through one of a number of wide doors: this one was marked MIT IV. They wound their way between the open offices and desks, Mike calling cheerful greetings to the few officers present, and then he was knocking on the open door of a glassed-in office and walking on in without waiting for an invitation.

"Morning, Greg."

The man behind the desk was in his mid forties, with spiky silver hair that gave him the look of a teen rebel not quite grown into sober adulthood. Frowning ferociously at the computer in front of him, he paused his frenetic typing for long enough to hold up a finger at Mike's greeting and mutter, "…_pursuant to - _be with you in half a minute - _the ongoing investigation into the murder of Johannes Wicken, 37, of Finsbury…_"

He lapsed into silence, eyes darting down to the keyboard, over to the files spread across the desk, up to the screen again as he typed. John perched on the edge of one of the two visitor's chairs; Mike lowered himself heavily into the other, shooting John an infuriatingly cheerful grin as he did so.

John admitted himself confused. This man - what had Mike called him? Greg? - was presumably the potential flatmate Mike had been referring to, but what need would a Yarder have for a flatmate? The rookie uniforms might not get paid all that well, but this one was a plainclothes with the CID, and had his own office to boot; they were hardly the marks of a minimum wage earner.

The room held little more than the desk and chairs. A couple of filing cabinets were shoved up against one wall, a coat rack had been attached to the back of the door, and a printer was plugged in and left on the floor beside the power socket. Beyond that, a quick look around the office showed nothing more personal than a battered coffee mug emblazoned with the sunburst-and-crown of the Metropolitan Police - no photos of a wife or kids, no quirky artwork on the walls, not even the traditional manically cheerful 'You Don't Have To Be Mad To Work Here But It Helps!' poster. Before he could draw any conclusions from his observations, the man was hitting the full stop key with a heavy forefinger and a sigh - if John's short weeks of keeping an empty blog had taught him anything, it was what a finger pressing that final full stop sounded like - and turning to face them.

"Right, that's that done. Sorry, Mike. Hi, uh…" he saw John sitting beside Mike and trailed off questioningly.

"John Watson." John stood, leaning awkwardly on his cane, and held out a hand for the man to shake.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," accompanied by a firm handshake.

He was aware of dark eyes scanning him as he sat back down, noting the cane, the stiff leg, and the presence of Mike, who was after all a doctor, and coming to entirely the wrong conclusion, "Assaults can be reported downstairs - "

"No - no, it's nothing like that. I'm not hurt - I mean, it's not - "

Ever the voice of reason, Mike interrupted, "John was in Afghanistan until three weeks ago. He's looking for a place to stay."

"Flatshare," John added quickly, horrified that the detective would think he was asking for charity, "you know, go halves on the rent, type thing."

He fell silent, aware that he'd made a hash of things already and he'd barely even met his potential flatmate. There was a long moment of silence, during which the detective looked between Mike and John, Mike nodded encouragingly into the middle distance, and John stared, embarrassed, at the front corner of the desk.

"Right," the detective said finally, drawing the word out slightly. "Well. Uh. It's a bit unexpected, to tell you the truth - you could've given me a bit of warning, Mike - and this is hardly the place to discuss it, I'm meant to be working."

"How's that going, by the way?" Mike nodded to the open file on the desk.

"About as well as can be expected, given the autopsy results," was the guarded answer, with a subtle tilt of the head toward John - but not so subtle that John didn't catch it.

He could feel himself reddening slightly at the implication. Lestrade didn't want to talk about it in front of a relative stranger.

"Oh - " Mike's correction was almost too artless to be believed, "John's a doctor, too. He was with the RAMC."

Lestrade straightened slightly, but said, "Be that as it may, he's not the attending forensic pathologist. You are."

"Only because Molly's off on conference, Nick and Jacko are both sick, and I don't have any classes to take until next week."

The detective shrugged and turned to look at John, "Sorry, you understand how it is - ongoing investigation, we can't discuss it with unauthorised personnel."

"Yeah - yeah, absolutely," John agreed. No need to make this any more awkward than it already was.

Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair, "Uh, look, I really can't talk now, but d'you know The White Horse pub? It's in Soho, just up from Piccadilly Circus off the A401. Corner of Rupert and Archer."

"I know it." In fact he'd been kicked out of it as a second year med student.

"If you're serious about wanting a flatshare, if this - " he waved a hand around the featureless office, "hasn't scared you off - "

"It hasn't," John said quickly.

"Then I'll meet you there at eight and we can have a chat, how about that?"

Maybe he hadn't ruined his chances right off the bat after all. "Brilliant. I'll see you then."

They stood, said their goodbyes, and were on their way out in under a minute as Lestrade turned back to his computer.

"So?" Mike prompted once they were on the street.

"So what?"

"What did you think?"

John made a noncommittal noise, "Don't know yet. Wait and see how tonight goes. How do you know him?"

"Like he said, I'm attending forensic pathologist for this case."

"Doesn't sound like you're a regular for it, though."

Mike shrugged, "I step in every few months when someone's out sick or when they're busy enough to need more than one person. I don't love it, but I do what I can to help."

"How'd you get into it?"

"Molly Hooper introduced me a couple of years back. She's their regular, but they needed more than just her - so now there's Molly, Nick, Jacko, and me. Molly's a sweet young thing: innocent as anything to look at, but she loves the job and she knows her stuff. Jacko's a bit older and a bit tougher, he and Greg give as good as they get when they're working together. Nick's only just out of school, and it shows; he's usually posted under the supervision of one of us."

John nodded, mulling this over. "And the Detective Inspector? What's he like?"

"Greg works hard - too hard, some would say. Long hours. It's a stressful job. He's…" Mike hesitated, "he's going through some stuff at the moment, but he can tell you about that himself, when or if he chooses. He's got a good sense of humour. Snarky. You'll like him."

They parted ways on Victoria Street, Mike flagging a taxi to head back to Bart's and John making for the tube station, but not before Mike had wrangled John's mobile number off him and made him promise to call the next day and let him know how the meeting went.

"And if I don't hear from you by dinner time I'll be calling you," he called as he turned away, raising an arm for an approaching cab, "so you may as well spare me the trouble."

John managed a brief half-smile by way of response. He watched the cab pull out into traffic and disappear, leaving him once more alone in the midst of the London crowd, and his smile disappeared too, fading into the old pain-worn lines it had come to know so well these last few weeks.

He bit back a sigh and turned toward the tube station. His meeting with Lestrade was over three hours away; that was more than enough time to head back to the bedsit and grab a bite to eat before heading for Soho. Maybe he'd update his blog before he went - or wait until he got back, when he'd have something to say. That was a better idea.

_Bumped into Mike Stamford earlier today. Found a flat tonight. Shouldn't think I'll be seeing much of my flatmate - he's a detective with the Met, keeps all sorts of odd hours._

He snorted. What an exciting life he had.

Leaning on his cane and limping, tap-step, tap-step, John vanished into the bowels of the Underground.


	2. Chapter 2

**The BBC owns Sherlock.**

**Prompted by, and filled for, TYRider.**

**A big thank you to my lovely reviewers - you know who you are.**

* * *

**Prompt: Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.**

* * *

He was late.

Checking his watch for the third time in five minutes, John quickened his steps and slipped through the doors of the pub just as the minute hand ticked over to eight ten. A quick sweep of the room showed that a) the place had changed little since his student days, b) it was just as brown as he remembered, and c) there was no sign of Lestrade.

Okay then.

Tamping down on the sudden surge of nervousness, he made his way through the sparse crowd to the bar and ordered a house lager. Surely the detective wouldn't have taken off already? He was only ten minutes late; most people would hang around for at least twenty minutes before deciding their meeting wasn't happening.

Then again, it was possible that Lestrade had been held up at work and was late himself.

Yeah. That would be right.

John breathed a mental sigh of relief, took his glass from the barman with a nod of thanks, and turned back to the room. He cast another casual glance around the room in case he'd missed Lestrade coming in, and something in the back corner caught his eye…

It was a staircase. That was new; the White Horse had been a decidedly one-storey establishment the last time he'd been here. Glass in hand, he wound through the tables and climbed the bare steps, emerging into an upper room cluttered with sagging couches and coffee tables.

There was a lone drinker in the corner, situated at a high bench where he could watch the street below through the wide window and still have a clear view of the room and the staircase. The figure looked up as John entered and lifted a hand in greeting, and John saw that it was Lestrade.

"Sorry I'm late," John said in greeting, juggling his cane and drink as he slid onto the high stool, "time got away from me a bit."

Lestrade brushed off the apology with a shake of his head, "Don't worry about it, Doctor Watson - "

"John, please."

"John. I've only just got here myself, really."

It was either the truth or a polite deflection, but John wasn't about to call him on it. "Long day at work?"

"Same as usual," the words were accompanied by a wry tip of the head. "Started at eight this morning and knocked off two hours ago to go the gym. Sixty hours or more is my standard work week; I'm usually only at the flat to sleep and raid the fridge, so if you were looking for a flatmate who finishes at five and watches telly in the evenings, I'm probably not your guy."

John sipped his lager and grinned, "I sort of assumed you wouldn't be that type. It doesn't worry me."

The detective looked an enquiry.

"I was a doctor with the army for the last ten years; I know exactly what it's like to fall into my bunk at three in the morning and be up and on the go at six. If cops are anything like doctors - and from the sounds of it they are, if a twelve-hour day is your standard - then it won't be much different from my med school days, except we'll both have a bit more money. I never saw my flatmates then, either."

They sat in silence for a bit. John used the time to covertly assess his potential flatmate, aware that the man was more than likely doing the same to him.

From the wrinkled shirt and lack of tie to the desk covered in files, three hours ago Lestrade had practically screamed 'stressed policeman'. Now, in dark jeans and a blue Henley, black leather jacket hanging over the back of his stool, he had a look that John recognised as 'off duty cop', in the same way that his squad in Afghanistan would be 'off duty soldiers and medic' on their days posted back to base. There was a trick to it: being relaxed and alert at the same time, enjoying yourself while being fully aware that you could be called to action at any time. There were some jobs that went longer than nine-to-five, longer even than eight-to-eight, and doctoring and policing were two of them.

There were always injuries to tend and crime to solve. A doctor was a doctor, off duty or no, and policemen were the same.

He sipped his lager and did his best to ignore Lestrade's scrutiny, then nearly choked when the detective said suddenly, "Tell me about yourself."

He put his glass down, "Sorry?"

"Mike's a good man, but I can't just invite you to flat with me on his word alone. Tell me about yourself," he repeated.

"Um," what was there to say that wouldn't make the man go running? "Well. I went to med school at Bart's with Mike, went through basic training, and then did ten years as an army doctor with the RAMC - six years in various postings all around the world and then four in Afghanistan. Came back to London three weeks ago, but I can't afford a place myself on what the army pays me, and I'd rather not stay in quarters any longer than I have to."

The bedsit would drive him insane if he stayed there another week. He swallowed and continued, "I'm tidy but not compulsively so, a decent cook when it comes to pasta and risotto and the like, and I'm more than capable of cooking and cleaning for myself. I'm a people person, very sociable, but if it's on my territory then I prefer small gatherings to large crowds. I watch Firefly reruns whenever they're on television and read the occasional trashy crime thriller."

_I suffer from nightmares three nights in four, _he didn't say. _I woke screaming at exactly seven minutes past two on the fourteenth of this month. At seven minutes past two on the fourteenth of the month before this, a bullet was entering my left shoulder through the pectoralis major and exiting through the upper latissimus dorsi. I clean when I'm stressed, and I learned to clean in the army - you've never seen such a clean toilet in your life. I do an army training regimen every morning, or as much of it as I deem myself fit to handle. It wasn't much three weeks ago, but I'm improving. My hand still shakes and my leg's half lame for no apparent reason, but I'm improving._

Lestrade, having not heard his internal monologue, was nodding, "That sounds in line with what I had in mind for a flatmate."

John bit back a cynical grin.

"You don't have a criminal record?" Lestrade continued. "As a doctor and a soldier I'd assume you don't, but I'm a cop, we have to ask these questions."

"I don't have a criminal record," John confirmed, "and I've not had any driving offences. I don't do drugs - I've never done drugs; ah, I'm not a heavy drinker, I don't smoke, I'm not currently sexually active…"

Realising what he'd said, he broke off, embarrassed, as the detective laughed.

"Sorry," he muttered, "automatic pilot for a second there."

"Don't mind me, mate," Lestrade waved a hand to dismiss it, grinning broadly. "It's good to know these things about a potential flatmate."

"What about you?" John asked, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. "I've told you enough about me, it's your turn now. Cough up."

He wasn't about to mention that he'd googled the detective. Sitting at his dining-table-cum-kitchen-counter-cum-work-desk earlier that evening with a bowl of lukewarm microwave pasta at his elbow and mug of tepid instant coffee in his hand, he'd spent an informative forty minutes trawling through various online news articles and the Met's own website, gleaning a snippet from a few years back here and a paragraph from last week there in order to build up a mental picture of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade which, in the end, didn't tell him a great deal more than what he'd already observed in the man's office that afternoon. But, he supposed, every little bit helped.

Of course, direct observation and interaction would help more.

Lestrade swigged his beer and said, "Me? Not much to tell. Been a cop for the last twenty-odd years and worked for the CID for twelve of that. Got promoted to Detective Inspector six weeks ago, hence the bare look of my office - I've only just moved in, really, haven't had a chance to get everything sorted yet. I got the flat when I got the promotion: I lived further out from the office before, and more responsibility means more hours and exponentially more paperwork, so I really needed to move to somewhere closer to the Yard."

Watching the way he rubbed his hands together almost nervously where they sat on the tabletop, John couldn't help wondering if there was more to that story.

"As for what I'm like to live with," Lestrade went on, "I'm an utter slob, I won't even try and deny it, but I do my best to keep the mess confined to my bedroom as much as possible. I'm an alright cook, I clean when I get time - which hasn't been often lately - and I guard my territory very carefully, it's a side effect of the job. Bolt the door and double-check the alarms before bed, be cautious about who I let into the flat in the first place, that sort of thing. I'm not much of a people person, but I like the odd pub night or social meet-up with friends; I abhor police dramas and I fall asleep in front of the telly more often than I actually get through an episode of anything; I love leisure reading, but the only reading I have much time for is police procedurals or brushing up on my criminal law."

He didn't sound as if he'd be a terrible flatmate, but then he could be not-saying just as much as John had not-said. Idly, at the back of his mind, John wondered what sort of nightmares a detective with twenty years' on the force would have… and then decided he really didn't want to know. There was no point in playing 'mine are worse than yours', with nightmares or anything else, not even theoretically. When it came to trauma, all experience was legitimate; a civilian rape was no less a traumatic experience than three tours of the Middle East would be, and treating it as a lesser issue, either as the person treating the issue or the person being treated, was not an option.

Swapping stories about John's ten years' military service and Lestrade's twenty years in the police force could wait until they knew each other better and were more comfortable in each other's company, until he knew the signs and tells that would let him know when he could keep pushing an issue and when he should back off.

Just when he had decided he would be fine flatting with Lestrade, he wasn't sure; and he couldn't even pinpoint _why. _Perhaps it had been when he'd seen the barely used office and realised that the man was as much a foot soldier as John himself was; perhaps when his automatic no-drugs-smoking-etc spiel had garnered a genuine laugh instead of raised eyebrows or a slantways look; perhaps when his mental _no civilians _barrier had let Lestrade through without a murmur, even before the words _I guard my territory very carefully_.

Coppers weren't civilians, any more than soldiers were.

The detective cleared his throat softly before draining his glass. "You're very quiet. Did I scare you off?"

John shook himself. "No! No. Quite the opposite, in fact. I, ah, I was just thinking that it sounds perfect - the perfect situation, really. If you think you might want me for a flatmate, that is."

"Yeah," Lestrade said with understated cheerfulness, "I think I might."

"Fantastic."

His relief must have shown a bit too much in his voice, because Lestrade's lips twitched.

"What's the flat like?" John asked.

"Well, it's close - just around the corner and down the road a bit. Forty-four Lexington Street. The flat's on the third floor. Living room, kitchen, and bathroom on the main level, spiral staircase up from the living room - it's not horrifically narrow, you should manage alright," with a brusque nod toward John's leg and the cane leaning against his stool - "and two bedrooms upstairs in the loft."

"How much is the rent?"

"Twenty-two hundred a month, so five hundred and fifty a week. Two seventy five each."

"That's a decent price." He'd been expecting a minimum of three hundred a week, and probably something closer to three-fifty for a two-bed flat in the middle of Soho.

"It's not a huge space, and not having a bathroom upstairs would put some people off," Lestrade shrugged. "Add to that the lack of parking space and the fact that the bedrooms are a bit tight, and there you have it."

John grinned and shook his head, "Doesn't worry me. I mean, I'd like to see the flat before I decide for sure, but I don't think any of that will be a problem."

"Great - "

"_Floop is a madman, help us, save us. Floop is a madman, help us, save us._"

Lestrade grimaced and patted his pocket, "Sorry, that's my phone. The squad gets hold of it sometimes and changes the text alert…"

The look of apology melted into confusion as he pulled his mobile out and read the text message, "_If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. _What on earth? Sherlock…"

"Problem?" John asked. Sherlock was presumably the name of the sender, but from Lestrade's tone it could just as easily be a substitute for another, rather shorter word that also started s-h.

"You could say that. It's from one of our consultants, but he always seems to forget that we have a dozen cases going at once… _Which case are you talking about?" _he muttered as he tapped the message into his phone, "_Whose brother and on what grounds?_"

He picked up his glass as if to knock back the last dregs before realising that he'd already finished his drink. Putting it back down, he slid off his stool and reached for his jacket, "Sorry, I'm going to have to go. I assume he's talking about an active case, and the sooner we can close it, the better. Look, I was going to say - if you want to come and have a nosey around the flat, I'll try and knock off work by six tomorrow, so I should be home by six thirty if you want to show up then? Or if that doesn't work for you - "

"That's fine," John broke in, "six thirty is fine."

"Great. If you need to contact me," the detective was sliding a card out of his wallet as he spoke, "here's my work number: text that and tell me who you are so I've got your details, in case there's a change of plans tomorrow and I need to let you know or anything."

John took the card and nodded, "I'll do that, thanks."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Lestrade was striding for the stairs, shrugging into his leather jacket as he went, and then he was gone.

John lifted his glass, looked at it thoughtfully for a long moment, and drained the last inch of lager. Tomorrow would be an interesting day.


End file.
